Pick A Card

“Pick a card,” her classmate said while passing her the jar. She smiled at the older woman then realized with a start that they were probably close in age. In fact, she was most likely the elder of the two.

She felt all eyes upon her as she held the smooth jar, giving it a quick shake. She had a sudden memory of her father’s voice. “Pick a card.” As if it were yesterday and not fifty years prior, she recalled sitting in the kitchen playing rummy while eating her mother’s sugar cookies. Before cell phones became the object of our attention families gathered around the table talking, eating, and playing cards. “Pick a card” he had said, a gentle reminder to her daughter, his granddaughter, that it was her turn.

Shaking away the ghosts, she picked out a folded index card and turned in her chair to pass the jar along. The young woman seated to her right was dressed casually with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail so effortlessly. Why was she spending her Saturday mornings here, she wondered. No credits were given for attending this class. Was she escaping a house full of children demanding her attention? Or was she enjoying her passion for writing, perhaps looking to turn her hobby into a career?

She held the folded card in her hands, turning it over and over. Like the anticipation before breaking open a Chinese fortune cookie, she was excited to read the secret message. Would it say have another cookie or give her great insight? She unfolded it. “The last thing you heard” was her writing prompt.

Rising from her seat in the circle, their teacher announced, “The clock starts now.” She made a grand gesture of setting down the old fashioned clock on the coffee table. Not too much pressure, everyone must be thinking, as the second hand started its journey round and round the face. Laptops opened amidst laughter and groans and the soft click clack of keyboards began.

She sat back, both amused and surprised at the simplicity of the prompt for her story. Grateful for her memory being clear she recalled that the last thing she heard was “pick a card”.  Her initial reaction was to write about the previous few minutes when the prompt jar traveled around the circle from student to student. Making up little backstories for her classmates held potential, she mused, and would be fun when read aloud the following week. She imagined the group trying to guess which students were the inspiration of the story.

On the other hand, she could create a whole new concept, tapping into a subject that held great fascination for her. With delight she pictured aliens in a spaceship playing cards, their huge eyes silently communicating to each other “pick a card”. Always observing yet unseen by most Earthlings, they discuss their next abduction over a game surprisingly similar to gin rummy. Maybe we aren’t so different after all would be the theme of this sci-fi short story.

That’s the beauty of storytelling. There are no boundaries, no limits to the imagination.  Exploring the endless possibilities was not only her hobby but her obsession.

Her thoughts drifted back to her parents’ kitchen, gazing out the window at the clothesline reaching across the alleyway and attaching itself to the building next door. She inhaled the warmth of the cookies as she ate them slowly, careful not to disturb her hand of playing cards arranged in order.  She took in every detail from her mother’s apron to her father’s brown flannel shirt and slippers. 

Delving deeper into the memory she heard chatter in their native language mixed with English. When her daughter tried to imitate their phrases, they laughed until tears came to their eyes, wiped away with a secret handkerchief tucked up in her mother’s sleeve. Unexpectedly she felt a misting in her own eyes at the love she remembered feeling in that kitchen all those years ago. Nestled between the two generations she savored the joy of spending time with both her daughter and her parents. Was she nearing their age now? It didn’t seem possible. The elderly seemed so much older in her parent’s generation when compared to her own.

A sharp interruption to her thoughts, “Halfway, class, halfway.” She blinked and felt a wetness on her cheek. Embarrassed, she wiped it away glancing at the clock marking the halfway point in the assignment. Father time marching on. She would have to get her story done.

The intrigue of a wild imaginative tale was put aside. The memory of her parents’ kitchen was the real story here, the story to be preserved, remembered, cherished. She typed it all out in the remaining ten minutes, titled it “Pick A Card” and hit submit.

As the creative writing class drew to a close, she saw her new aide appear in the doorway waiting to help her make the walk through the rec center out to the waiting car. She was pleased with her short story and looked forward to hearing it read aloud by their teacher the following week. The feedback from her classmates helped her continue producing her best work, kept her mind sharp. In addition, the socialization was much appreciated after too many hours of solitude.

She rose from the overstuffed chair and leaned on her cane, allowing her aide to carry her bags. The outing was wonderful as always, but the dreaded fatigue was creeping in. She suddenly craved being in the comforts of her own home surrounded by her books. 

Settled into the back seat she looked forward to the cup of tea and sugar cookies that would be served upon her return. Her driver stopped at the red light in front of Main Street Books. Glancing over, she smiled at the image of her younger self prominently displayed in the store window. Her aide gasped and sputtered out “Wow, Miss Helen, you look a lot like Hannah Lynn. She could be your younger sister or even your daughter!” 

“Oh? Is that so?” She smiled secretly to herself remembering the day she chose Hannah Lynn as her pen name.

“Have you heard of Hannah Lynn, Miss Helen? Not sure if you like science fiction? She writes about aliens watching us. I just love her stories.”

“She looks familiar,” Helen answered, feeling amused. Over the years people have noted the similarities but never once pegged her as actually being the wildly successful sci-fi author.  Being a loner by nature it was easy for her to keep a low profile and maintain her anonymity. 

The conversation faded to the background of Helen’s mind as she began working out a scene involving the abduction of a little old lady or quite possibly her new aide.